


Pride Before Fall

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Minor Derek Hale/Isaac Lahey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: Lydia ignored him, opening her fan with a snap and waving it idly across her face. “Moping also doesn’t become you. There are plenty of other eligible gentlemen present, such as Mr. Lahey. Or maybe Mr. Argent is more to your taste?”“Do not speak of him.”“But you don’t deny that he is to your taste. And for ten thousand a year...”Peter scoffed. “His looks do not make up for his personality.”





	Pride Before Fall

**Author's Note:**

> PRIDE AND PREJUDICE!!! AU!!! (sort of) for historical day of petopher week. 
> 
> or at least it was supposed to be, i started veering away from it instantly and i think if i did write actual georgian/regency era fic with petopher, it'd be pretty different from this. 
> 
> nonetheless, enjoy!

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. 

Peter supposed that must be true enough of gentlemen like Christopher Argent and his ward Isaac Lahey— Peter himself was comfortable enough, the son who made more out of himself than anyone expected. He knew what people call him behind his back— nouveau riche and bastard son were the politest on the list— but his fortune was nothing compared to the level of the gentlemen recently arrived in Longbourn. And as thus, he was not much in want of a wife. 

A little bit of fun, however, he was not averse to.

The ball at Netherfield place is an extravagant affair, the estate’s doors thrown open to the village’s gentry and the visiting militia. People crowded the fine rooms, and music floated through the air. Peter turned heads as he entered, the brilliant blue of his superfine coat with its fine velvet, navy collar complimenting the shade of his eyes perfectly. His boots were shined to a mirror finish, and he was aware of the figure he cut.

There was no sign of Deucalion in the rabble of the soldiers present, scarlet coats pristine and buttons shined to a golden gleam. A shame, but on the bright side, Peter had yet to run into Christopher Argent either. 

Derek was fidgeting at his side, and Peter resisted the temptation to bat his hands into submission. It was obvious why he was full of nerves, although Peter had no idea why his nephew was still plastered by him rather than joining the dance floor, where Isaac was sure to be searching for him. They had been making eyes at each other since the first assembly, and Talia had been crowing about a possible match since then while trying to push her daughters onto his guardian. 

“Well, go on,” he told Derek. “What are you doing here with your bachelor uncle when you have an eligible young man to woo?” 

Derek’s ears turned red, and he muttered with ill grace, “You just want to look for Mr. Blackwood.” 

“I like him very much,” Peter said without shame. Derek looked mortified and like he’d much rather flee than linger to hear how fond Peter was of Deucalion, making his excuses and diving through the throng towards the next room. 

Alone at last, but not for long. While Peter was combing the rooms and admiring the general opulence and making passing conversation, Lydia Martin joined him. He took her arm. She was beautifully arranged, the luxurious mass of her hair braided and wound around her head in a crown, ringlets escaping down the elegant column of her neck. There were flowers dotted here and there, tiny purple blooms of it. Her gown was a filmy white, clinging and soft to her figure, the neckline trimmed in gold embroidery. 

She brought news. “Your officer isn’t here. He’s been detained in town.” 

“Detained,” Peter said. 

“Some business or the other, though I’m sure he would have been less inclined to be preoccupied were it not for a certain gentleman.” 

Peter’s lip curled, and Lydia rapped him across the knuckles with her fan. “Don’t make that face, it doesn’t become you.” 

“Remind me again why we’re friends at all,” he said with a sniff. 

Lydia ignored him, opening her fan with a snap and waving it idly across her face. “Moping also doesn’t become you. There are plenty of other eligible gentlemen present, such as Mr. Lahey. Or maybe Mr. Argent is more to your taste?”

“Do not speak of him.”

“But you don’t deny that he is to your taste. And for ten thousand a year...” 

Peter scoffed. “His looks do not make up for his personality.” 

Said personality which Peter had to deal with the brunt of while Derek had been recovering from his illness at Netherfield Park, to Isaac’s distinct pleasure. Christopher Argent was taciturn and proud— no doubt he thought himself above the rest of them at Hertfordshire— and seldom spoke to Peter aside from the few cutting asides, though the man had an unsettling habit of staring at Peter when he thought Peter wasn’t looking. What he was looking for, Peter hadn’t the faintest. 

Lydia did not say anything further, and Peter did not allow her the opportunity to, applying instead in her hand for a dance. The floor was lively with dancers. Peter enjoyed himself quite thoroughly for Lydia was light of feet and they were longtime friends. Conversation turned elsewhere during the course of the set. They stepped away in good spirits. 

Peter was surprised at Argent’s sudden appearance in their path, Lydia’s laughter trailing off as the pair of them appraised the man in front of them. 

“Mr. Hale,” Argent said, the sombre cast of his demeanour no less even in the festive atmosphere. Did the man never smile? “Dance the next set with me.”

“Is that a request or an order, sir?” Peter asked, a single eyebrow kicked up in uncontrolled surprise. 

There was a lull in the air. Lydia looked between them as though they were the greatest spectacle she had witnessed of late. 

“Please,” Argent added. 

Peter inclined his head in agreement; afterward, he could not say why. Maybe it was as Lydia said— Argent’s looks were to his taste in spite of his abominable personality, and there was plenty two could do that did not require conversation or civility. 

“Interesting,” said Lydia. 

“I should have said no.” 

“Of course you should have said yes— he’s paying you quite the compliment by singling you out.” 

“Then why does it feel more like a desire to annoy me?” 

“You are imagining things, Peter,” Lydia said. “Maybe he has changed his mind and found you to his taste after all. And your officer is well and good, but Mr. Argent is a man of no little consequence. You are not a fool, however foolish you’ve been behaving.” 

Peter was kept from a retort when the musicians adjusted, people leaving and heading for the center of the room. 

He left Lydia and joined Argent on the floor, aware of the escalation in titters from the crowd. Those from the first assembly Argent and his ward attended were astounded to see him dancing with anyone other than those from his own party, and with Peter Hale no less. Peter, accustomed to ignoring them, carried on as usual. Laura along with her sisters were in attendance, though she was not dancing, Derek was. With Lahey, of course. Predictable. The two of them were enamoured with each other, smiles they thought hidden flickering across their faces as they waited for the music to start. 

In contrast— one look at Argent said it all. His expression gave away nothing, which was telling in itself. 

Peter couldn’t think of a single reason why he had asked for a dance. It certainly wasn’t because the man enjoyed it. 

But Peter did and he was not the sort to let someone else’s bad countenance ruin his own good mood. He was lively on his feet and soon decided to challenge Argent into keeping up with him. The idea of a severe and obvious disparity in their pairing and proving himself superior was appealing. So he danced, and he did it well. 

“You could keep an eye on Mr. Lahey just as well from the sidelines like you prefer,” Peter said in the midst of it.

“He’s dancing with your nephew again,” Argent said, the slightest frown crossing his brow. 

“Stating the obvious, Mr. Argent.” 

Argent did not answer him any further, but Peter pressed on. “Are you always so terrible a conversationalist? The last few weeks have suggested so, and unless you prove it to the contrary, I shall think you very dull. Taciturnity does not become many.” 

“I’m eloquent when the occasion calls for it.” 

“Ah, so it is your partner who is the flaw.” 

Argent’s hand was warm and dry, and tightened as he gripped Peter’s in the next turn. “No,” he said quietly, “far from it. You are an excellent dancer, and you have a most clever way when it comes to conversation.” 

Peter could not quite believe his ears. The dance continued and ended in silence; he excused himself immediately, disappearing into the crows. He did not see Argent’s gaze track his retreat. 

In the nearby grounds behind the house, Peter found refuge in the night air. A manicured sprawl of lawn provided some space for him to walk. Behind him, the ball carried on in full gaiety and glitter. Netherfield Park had beautiful grounds. He strolled for some time, the cold white gasp of his breath his ghostly companion. There was no one else out here. It was cold enough that few would be tempted to sneak away from the main event unlike a ball held during balmy summer evenings. 

No one else interrupted his reverie for some time. He had to wonder at Argent’s countenance back in the ballroom. Thus far the man had shown little inclination to socialise beyond what was absolutely necessary, rebuffing the polite inquiries by the Hertfordshire society at large. Neither had Peter forgotten the initial snub that Argent had voiced to his ward at the first assembly. Tolerable! Him, Peter Hale— merely tolerable. 

Peter scoffed to himself. That was his downfall as it hid the sound of footsteps approaching. 

“A butterfly is ill-suited to these temperatures.”

Argent’s voice cut through the quiet, all gravel and thunder. 

The slight was more than the compliment. “Then it is a good thing I am not so fragile as one.”

“The correlation I draw is from your colouring tonight. The morpho helenor. You’ve heard of it?” 

Peter’s attention was caught despite himself. “Even a simple country gentleman like myself is in possession of books and aware of the renown of the blue butterfly. You condescend, sir.” 

“You twist my words when I only wish to say you are an ornament to these grounds.” 

“A moth is better suited for the nighttime than a butterfly, and a man more fit to be compared to something less flighty and delicate.” 

“A peacock, then.”

“You are deliberately trying to incense me now, Mr. Argent,” Peter said. He would not rise to the bait. 

Argent’s mouth tipped upward at the corners ever so slightly, and he came close enough for Peter to be caught in the haunting, pale scope of his gaze. “I like it when you are angry.” 

“I cannot begin to imagine why.” 

“It is your eyes,” Argent said. “They gain the most incandescent light when you’re furious. And your wit is at its sharpest when you think yourself slighted.”

Peter could not reply, so great was his confusion. This was an utter turnabout from the proud, standoffish man who had thus far resisted introductions to most of Hertfordshire’s society beyond what the barest bones of civility required; much to Talia’s chagrin, for his sister had designs on both Argent and Lahey, what with a whole host of daughters to marry off. Was this, could this be the same man who had also shown little interest in Peter other than to look down on him previously? 

“And you colour most beautifully.”

He was taken by complete surprise when Argent raised one hand and laid his fingertips against the curve of his cheek— and as a consequence, too slow to move away immediately. The impropriety of it stunned him, and Peter was far from what anyone would call a conservative or shy man. Heat rose to his cheeks. His heartbeat picked up and despite the chill of the night along with the relative lack of anyone else present, Argent’s singular presence was stifling. 

He stepped back and drew himself to his full height. 

“Sir, you are too forward,” he said, voice holding steady, “or you have been too deep in your cups for your opinion of me to have changed so rapidly. I will take my leave now. Perhaps you ought to stay a while and take a turn in the garden. The fresh air might clear your head and save you from further embarrassment.” 

Without further ado, Peter strode back towards the house, trembling. He saw nothing more of Christopher Argent that night, but his cheek burned as though branded until well after the ball ended.

**Author's Note:**

> the very first line is not mine, it is jane austen's.


End file.
